


Of Gold, Glamour, and the Art of Being Seen

by argyle4eva



Series: Wise As Serpents, Innocent As Doves [18]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Married Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:40:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22635283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argyle4eva/pseuds/argyle4eva
Summary: Aziraphale considers the nature of public displays of affection.Written for Mielpetit/mielpetite'sIneffable Valentines prompt list, Day 11 - Love token/Promises.In the "Wise as Serpents" 'verse, Crowley creates his and Aziraphale's wedding rings inthis WIP snippetposted to Tumblr a while back; it stands alone nicely, until the larger story is completed.Posting a bit early again, to make sure it's up by morning.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Wise As Serpents, Innocent As Doves [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535606
Comments: 6
Kudos: 57
Collections: Ineffable Valentines 2020





	Of Gold, Glamour, and the Art of Being Seen

Aziraphale’s hands had been the same since . . . well, for as long as he’d had hands, so for six thousand years. He’d become used to the way they looked, even if it didn’t usually register much; one focused on what one’s hands were doing, but not the hands themselves.

That was why it was so strange to have something new about them, and the way it kept catching his attention at odd times.

The new addition was Crowley’s ring, of course: the simple band of warm, yellow gold that had never been touched by any tools but Crowley’s bare hands and will. It was an exceptional achievement, magically speaking, the sort of thing only possible for someone who had been given special gifts of creation and artifice, back at the dawn of Creation.

That ring, and the matching one Crowley had made for himself out of white gold, were the first things he’d worked with his old skills since his Fall, which made the gift especially precious. It was a constant reminder of Crowley’s love, and Aziraphale smiled to himself whenever he saw it.

He smiled, on cue, when the ring glinted in the light as Aziraphale was re-rolling the latest scroll he’d finished transcribing – but rather than moving on, as he usually did, he paused and frowned to himself, because there was something about the ring that his subconscious had been noticing lately, and he wanted to puzzle out what it might be.

He stored the scroll safely, with a bit of extra magic to help keep the papyrus supple, then moved to his overstuffed wingback chair – for once without a book in hand. Instead, he studied the ring more closely, turning it idly on his finger.

Crowley had gifted the ring to him while he was sitting in this very chair, and it had been a tremendous surprise, because a ring was not something Aziraphale had ever expected, or even thought of. In hindsight it was a lovely idea, of course, and in many ways a practical one as well, giving their relationship an extra level of respectability in human eyes (and simplifying some conversations greatly – being able to show a ring and mention, “my husband/wife/partner” was a nice shortcut).

It was just . . . so oddly human. A human wedding custom, and one that didn’t particularly apply to beings who belonged to no Earthly nation, culture, church, or faith.

Marriage itself was unknown in Heaven and Hell; angels and demons might have friendships or alliances, but nothing approaching a life-long romantic bond. So, in that sense, adopting the _idea_ of marriage for themselves seemed fitting, but the trappings were irrelevant, in Aziraphale’s mind. Unnecessary. They’d pledged their union in private, a moment shared only with each other and the One Who witnesses all oaths, and frankly it was nobody else’s business.

And yet – Crowley had chosen a ring. Rings. A visible, public, announcement of their relationship.

Public. To own and be owned, visibly. To be part of something. To be wanted, and seen to be wanted.

_Ah._

_I’ve been a bit dense, love._

It was all part and parcel of the public (and semi-public) displays of affection Crowley seemed to enjoy so much. _Needed_ so much, Aziraphale realized. It wasn’t really about tweaking observers, or flirting with Aziraphale, though those would certainly be pleasant side effects. It was about not being . . .

 _Rejected. Fallen. Unforgivable. Broken._ Words Aziraphale wished he could kiss and make better all at once, but words aren’t physical hurts, like thorn scrapes; they can dig so much deeper and bleed so much longer.

The ring itself was a good sign, a healing sign: Crowley realizing he could still create as well as destroy. Aziraphale had understood _that_ from the beginning, at least. But it was only part of the story.

_Now that I know it’s something you need, love, I’ll help as best I can._

_It will help me, too, to unlearn all the secrecy and standoffishness I took on under Heaven’s yoke. I have been strangled by that for far too long, and it’s taken a toll on both of us._

Aziraphale stopped turning the ring on his finger and looked at it, not just with his eyes, now, but with deeper perceptions. He stroked the ring, feeling for the spaces in between molecules, where something as delicate as magic might fit, and wove a small addition into the metal. The opposite of a misdirection: an enhancement. What was the old word? A _glamour_. Yes.

The ring didn’t change in outward appearance, but when Aziraphale tilted his hand to and fro to test the spell, the gold took on a new richness, caught the light more easily than it had before, made itself known in a subtle but undeniable way. Nobody could possibly miss it now, on his hand. _This is a married individual._

Aziraphale smiled, pleased. He’d always felt that the rings seemed a bit one-sided, skewed towards Crowley’s work only. It would be good to add his own contribution, to give something from his side.

The door opened, and Crowley entered, carrying a bouquet of dried winter flowers, seedheads, and leaves – pale, but still beautiful.

“ _That_ was a job and a half, but the flowerbeds are finally clear. I thought some of it might look good on the table, as a dried arrangement, so I saved the best bits.”

“Oh! They do look nice. I’ll get a vase.”

Once the dried arrangement had been properly fussed over and positioned on the kitchen table, Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand and raised it to his lips, kissing the ring there. “Thank you, love.”

“I hated to compost it all . . . wait.” Crowley squinted at his hand, still held in Aziraphale’s. “Did you just do something?”

“A little spell I worked out,” Aziraphale told him. He smiled. “Now, when you get admirers while you’re walking down the street, they’ll be sure to notice _this_ , too.”

Crowley cocked his head, studying the effect of the glamour. “Jealous, angel?”

“Selfish, more like. I want people to know you’re taken. They can look all they like, but they can also keep their distance.”

Crowley’s expression of gobsmacked delight put Aziraphale in mind of an exchange long, long ago, that contained the words, _You gave it away_.

“I didn’t think you had it in you,” Crowley said, “being territorial like that.”

“Love, you’ve seen me around my books.”

“Well, yeah, but . . .”

“You’re mine, too. And far more important than any book.”

“I think that’s _the_ most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“And I’m yours, of course.” Aziraphale tilted his hand to show off his own glamoured ring.

Aziraphale realized belatedly his spell might be taken as an unnecessary adulteration of Crowley’s art. “I hope you don’t mind me adding a little magic, they’re lovely without . . .”

“Do I _mind_? Of course I don’t mind. C’mere. _Mwah_. That’s how much I mind.” The last was accompanied an affectionate, playful kiss and embrace.

Aziraphale laughed, and wiggled in Crowley’s arms. The kiss had tickled. “A productive afternoon for both of us.”

“You’re telling me. I need to bring you handfuls of dead plants more often, if that’s the kind of reception they’ll get.”

“Skip the plants. Just bring yourself.”

“Deal.”


End file.
